


Thermoregulation

by Ladyfeets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Murder Husbands, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8362963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyfeets/pseuds/Ladyfeets
Summary: At the end of the day they're together, alone.





	

   At the Hotel Sacher Wien, needles of sleet threaten the windows facing the Vienna State Opera. On the third floor, there is a room booked under the name Sean Thatchery. On the floor of the room are two shirts, one with a fine spray of red at the collar, slowly oxidizing to brown. On the bed are 1200 thread count sheets, and two men not long for this world.

Sebastian sighs and settles, winding one arm around Jim and tucking the other under the pillow. He gathers the slim figure against his chest and tucks his nose into silky dark hair.

“Seb” Jim whines, with a little indignant rattle. “It’s too hot.”

“It’s 13 bloody below outside” Sebastian huffs, then murmurs, half asleep, “...wanna hold you.”

“Fine” Jim slides one leg from under the duvet and hooks it behind Sebastian’s knee, tugging him even closer.

“G’night, boss” Sebastian purses his lips in the barest hint of a kiss behind his ear.

***

At a bolthole in Chicago Sebastian sits on a bare mattress, shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards. He’s contemplating dealing a hand of solitaire. The door slams open hard enough for the handle to make a dent in the cheap plaster on the wall.

“Jesus fuck, Moran, it’s freezing.”

Before he registers the voice and the words and the familiar dark form, Sebastian has his pistol drawn, left palm braced under right wrist. His neck and shoulders deflate. The cigarette between his lips sags as he relaxes and throws the gun on the bed. He plucks the cig from his mouth and steps it out on the cement floor. “Nice surprise, Jim. Didn’t think even you could find me in this shithole”

Jim narrows his eyes and raises the left side of his upper lip. He sinks onto the mattress and takes a few gulps from the tea mug full of cheap bourbon at Sebastian’s ankle.

“Don’t think - ” he coughs a bit. Tucks his chin to his chest, runs both hands through his hair. His eyes flick up, bloodshot and liquid chocolate. “There is nowhere on this earth” - he lilts more when he’s tired or drunk, the r is warm and curled, the th breathy - “that I can’t find you.”

Sebastian gives him details of the hit. Jim has booked six seats on the 6:25 to Vancouver under various names. They should get some sleep. Drawing the scratchy wool blanket over them, Sebastian lays back with Jim’s head against his shoulder. A draft kicks under the warmth as Jim sticks one foot outside their cocoon.

“What the hell, boss? Thought you were freezing.”

“You throw off heat, Tiger” murmured close enough for lips to brush skin. “Plus the whiskey. Da used to call it getting his dram jacket on.” Jim talking about his childhood was rare enough. Seeking out comfort in a rat trap behind Heathrow when he could be in a penthouse suite or his own flat in Belgravia- the thought pooled like warm honey, blending with the bourbon in his stomach.

Jim was still talking, the brogue rough and sweet with sleep. “...you with me, Seb.”

Sebastian rumbled low in his chest and pulled his arms tighter, squeezing briefly then falling lax with exhaustion.

“G’night, boss”

***

Jim wakes in a sheen of sweat.

"Seb - " he mumbles, before he remembers the exothermic body pressed against him is too small, too soft. The little pathologist. He stretches one foot from under Molly's Laura Ashley pattern duvet, and starts as her fat ginger tabby bats at his toes. Jim smiles, despite himself. "Easy, tiger." he whispers to the murderous wee beast.

He checks the time on his phone - 5:41am. Late enough to leave but still have spent the night. Early enough to get home and use his own toiletries rather than Molly's cheap floral shampoo. He slides carefully out of the bed and picks the neon green pants off the floor. Dressed, he tiptoes back to the bed and runs his finger down the girl's cheek.

"I'll see you at work, sweetheart" She barely wakes enough to nuzzle into the touch. A soft "Bye, Jim." and she smiles back to sleep. Outside her flat, he unlocks his phone again to call a cab. Can't very well be seen getting into a private car when he's Jim from IT. Two texts pop up.

_2:34am Robinson is done. Kelley did well._

2:35am _G'night_ boss

***

The call comes just as Sebastian is sitting down with his rifles and a beer. The not knowing is killing him. An episode of TopGear and the smell of gun oil might help to soothe his nerves. It comes from a blocked number.

"It's over", the voice rasps. "Come get me."

Sebastian is dialing the driver and shoving his boots on so fast he's almost out the door before he remembers he's not armed. He drops on his front to retrieve the Glock strapped under the sofa. Something shiny catches the light - a tie pin with a little bird worked in silver. A magpie. He grips it like a talisman and bolts out the door, shoving it in his pocket and the gun in the back of his jeans.

_Please be okay. Please be okay._

At the rendezvous point in Dartmoor, a small figure slumps against a tree, smoking. The car isn't yet stopped when Sebastian stumbles out and grips him by the shoulders.

"Jim - "

The eyes that meet his are feral for half a moment before growing wide, soft, and so, so tired. His skin is sallow beneath black stubble. Jim drops the cigarette in the gravel on the side of the road. He lets Sebastian take his hand and lead him to the car like a child. Bundled in the back seat, Sebastian taps the driver’s headrest.

"Back to the flat, Phillip"

"Yes sir"

The separator rolls up. Sebastian turns to Jim and finally lets all his worry wash over him. In its wake are so many questions.

"Any injuries I should know of?"

Jim shakes his head, eyes unfocused.

"Did they... get any information we need to worry about?"

Jim shakes his head, no.

"We got a plan, boss?"

Jim pins him with his gaze, suddenly sharp. A slow smile drizzles over his cracked lips. He pats Sebastian's knee.

"Yes. We have a plan, Tiger. You'll see."

Sebastian smiles back in relief. He takes the madman's head in his hands and presses their lips together, hard enough to split Jim's already bleeding mouth. He takes off his jacket and shifts sideways so Jim can lay across the seat, head in his lap. Laying on his side, Jim's eyes drift closed. Sebastian spreads his coat over his legs. Smiles as Jim toes his shoes off, leaving one leg to drape near the floorboard and the other curled under the coat.

"It's 3 hours back to London. Have a kip"

The sun has just set behind them as Phillip turns the car toward Exeter. Sebastian cards his fingers through dark hair, grown out into waves gone frizzy.

"G'night, boss"

***

It can't. It can't. He saw it through his own bloody scope but Jim taught him well enough to trust nothing as it seems. It's cold in the morgue. He tore a fingernail off breaking in, he glances around for bandages but decides to tough it out.

He locates the right drawer easily enough. And there it is - the shell that held the only thing he ever loved.

Years ago he was staking out a hit, waiting for a professor to break into a chemistry lab. The man had been synthesizing stimulants for the wrong people, and Jim wanted him gone. Sebastian picked up a book left on a desk and read as he waited. To kill time before he killed anything else.

"You don't have a soul", it said. “You have a body. You are a soul.”

Sebastian wasn't sure about souls and all that, but Jim was a truly singular intellect, with determination like he'd never seen and wasn't likely to again. And he'd had a body. A body Sebastian had caressed, stroked, bitten, kissed, fucked, held and squeezed so hard, so close, never close enough. He lets himself check it over, begging gods for something to prove him wrong. The mole on his thigh. The scar on his shoulder. The inexplicable cluster of freckles on the top of his left foot. Finally Sebastian sighs, chides himself for the sentiment, then covers the body again with the sheet. He turns to leave.

His heart clenches like a fist. Barely two steps away, he spins on his heel and approaches the gurney again. With one deliberate hand, he flicks a corner of the sheet to expose one freckled foot. One slender ankle. Half of one pale shin. He turns again, not looking back -

"G'night, boss."


End file.
